Chapter 2: Callaghan
I’m counting the minutesuntil I can leave this stupid event. We’re in training. We have the biggest two games of the season ahead of us. We should be resting and watching videos, planning our strategies. Not attending a fancy cocktail party, eating all sorts of crap food, and drinking heavily.
Proper rest is significantly underrated.
In my head, I say that in the poshest voice, my time spent playing soccer in the British Football League allows me to.
In reality, I’m from New Jersey, and we all know there’s no cure for Jersey. My ex-wife told me that as she was storming out for the final time. I love that she used that as an excuse when we all know that my affinity for pork roll has nothing to do with why she left me.
Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Another saying from across the pond that I can’t quite pull off.
Not that I need a fancy accent to help me out. I do alright.
I scan the room looking for someone who might have the potential to get me through the night. Just something quick and uncomplicated. It’s been a while. With the Global Games in Paris a mere eight months away, I’ve been in such a zone that I’ve neglected this need.
Frankly, I’ve neglected every single person in my life who’s not on the soccer field. It’s an occupational hazard. What it takes to succeed at the top level.
I look for someone who might want to hang out for a bit tonight, but it seems as if most of the women here are with dates. My gaze falls on a woman in a sparkly white dress walking across the room. She’s alone.
No wait, she’s with ... Is that Xavier Henry? What’s he doing here?
There’s absolutely no reason for him to be at a publicity event for the Boston Buzzards, yet here he is. Word on the street is that he’s getting benched from the Baltimore Terrors.
They’re a bunch of assholes.
Henry’s not bad, despite the rumors. Our paths overlapped slightly when I played in the BFL, but then there was that thing with Phaedra Jones, and Henry was history. He showed up in the US a year or so later, playing for Baltimore.
I never really liked Phaedra or Edmund Jones for that matter, but still, what Xavier did was a shit move. I haven’t heard a negative word about him since, though, so he’s either cleaned up his act or has the best agent in the world.
He’s a killer defender. I only wish we could get him on the team for the championship game. No matter the outcome of the game next week, Henry would be an asset to the team.
I finish off my whiskey. I’d bet a deal is already in the works. That’s how things are done. It’d be the only reason why he’s here tonight. I make a mental note to call my agent, Justice, to see if he’s heard anything. Only so I’m prepared if HQ is shaking up the roster.
Shit. What if they are shaking up the roster? What if they’re looking at another major revamp for next season and there’s no longer a place for me?
It wouldn’t be the first time.
I swallow the enormous lump that’s formed in my throat. Miller’s never given any indication that he’s displeased with me, but I’m not getting any younger. I’ll be thirty-five by the start of the next season and the Global Games next summer.
It’s practically ancient in the soccer world. I might as well have Justice book my next endorsement for AARP or Prevagen since I’ll be their target demographic.
That’s a long way off, and it will do me no good to think about that now. I need to focus on the next thing. The next practice. The next game.
No need to think about things too far into the future.
I have no future.
Hard as I try, I can’t picture a world beyond the Global Games.
And I don’t want to.
I consider the road mapped out in front of me.
